


Always Sufficient

by corialis



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corialis/pseuds/corialis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A selection of the people Locke Lamora has been and chooses to be. Or, the many ways in which Jean Tannen tolerates his idiot companion, for reasons to be determined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Sufficient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comixologist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comixologist/gifts).



> My eternal petal-raining gratitude to my companion in Yulepanic. Opening italicized sequence is taken directly from Red Seas Under Red Skies.

_“We had expected a third,” said Locke quietly. “But the two of us will suffice.” He stared at their new boat, at the once-alien arrangement of sails, rigging, mast, tiller. “We're always sufficient.”_

“Merchant speculators,” Locke said, trying to wrap a Talishani accent around the syllables in the most natural way. “So what will we speculate in?”

The carriage clattered along the road to Tal Verrar, rain lashing down on the roof, and Locke was grateful that they had managed to abandon the slipskinner disguise long before the weather had changed. Apple mash had trouble standing up to the elements, though it did give a charming curtain call as it dripped off.

Jean shrugged. “As far as I've known, even actual merchant speculators can't tell you that. Fabrics? Spices? Exotic fruits? Obscene puppets?”

“I think I've had enough exotic fruit for the time being,” Locke said. “Leocanto has no interest in fruit. He disdains most things healthful. Obscenity could be fun though.”

“How unlike yourself,” Jean said drily. “Though now that you mention things we've had enough of, do you think these names are different enough from our own?”

Locke turned to look out the window as the raindrops blurred the Verrari countryside. “We followed their terms,” he said. “But I think if they did want to find us then no false name would be quite clever enough.”

_Locke turned out to be a terrible initiate of Dama Elliza._

_It wasn't entirely his fault, he decided, since it wasn't as though a skinny Camorri city dweller could be expected to take naturally to farming. Prior to Chains taking him into the country, the most dirt he'd seen in one place had been accumulated on the faces of his fellow orphans in Shades' Hill and he'd barely lifted anything heavier than their cooking pots._

_There was nothing circumspect about farming, as far as he could figure._

_The buildings of Villa Senziano would have managed to fit within Catchfire with room to spare, but the amount of open space was more than Locke had seen in his approximate ten years of existence. Chains chuckled at the way he kept looking around as though he expected more city to be lurking around every hilltop._

_“That's all there is of it, I'm afraid,” he said as their cart pulled up in front of a small wood house and a grizzled man who hardly seemed as though he could be of age with Chains thumped out to meet them._

_“So this is your unfortunate trainee,” the man said, eyeing Locke like he was considering purchasing him as livestock._

_“This is Jerome,” Chains said, shoving Locke forward with a hand on his back. “Jerome, this is Vandros. Listen to him as though he were me, but perhaps with a bit more respect, as if I come back to hear you had an unfortunate run-in with your head and a shovel I won't know any better.”_

_Vandros turned out to be a hospitable if demanding host, since farming turned out to be rather a lot of being dragged out of bed far too early. Locke was fairly certain that if Chains hadn't arranged for him to stay for three months he would have been sent back the first day he knocked over the pile of fruits and vegetables that had been strategically stacked in a manner designed to be most pleasing to the goddess. Or the second, or third. And he definitely did not want to think about the harvest ritual._

_He kept himself amused by writing dramatic letters to Jean, all of which were addressed to “My dearest mother.”_

The folds of fabric around his throat finally fell into place as Locke gave a satisfied sigh. “I hate to say it, but it is nice to be wearing something decent for a change.”

Jean raised an eyebrow at him. “Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a taste for fripperies.”

“In that they're preferable to lying in my own filth and sometimes blood.”

Not the right thing to say, and Locke winced when Jean scowled. “Shit. Jean, that's not–”

Jean waved a hand dismissively. “No, it's not– I don't–” he made a frustrated noise in his throat. “You've apologized and I've forgiven you, and let's go find a horrible bloody death to throw ourselves in front of so we can continue this goal of getting sufficiently back to our old selves, wherever they may be hiding.”

Locke went back to fiddling with a cuff that he had just decreed satisfactory. “I really can't tell you how sorry I am, you know.”

Jean reached over and covered Locke's hand with his own, stilling his fidgeting.

_After Sabetha had returned from her time as an initiate of of Nara, Lady of Ubiquitous Maladies (an affiliation which would in retrospect become bitterly amusing), she decided that they were going to temporarily become a troupe of traveling actors._

_Locke assumed this was somehow plague-related but was relatively unfazed by the prospect of being a traveling plague actor. The Sanzas were relatively unfazed by basically everything and had already started debating which of them was handsome enough to play the lead._

_Jean was less enthused, but Locke was sure that once he was around Sabetha long enough he'd be convinced._

_“You do seem to have a bit of a penchant for disease,” he said when Locke pressed him about it._

_Locke shrugged. “That's not your issue. Out with it. I'd have thought this would be right up your romance-reading alley.”_

_Jean rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, an obvious tell that Locke made a mental note to train out of him. He had to start thinking like a garrista._

_“It just seems a bit unusual is all. Do we really want to draw attention to the fact that we're acting, when we'd also be playing at being actors at all?”_

_Locke grinned. “Of course we do. That makes it more fun.”_

“I'm not cut out for this life of decadence,” Locke declared dramatically, flinging himself across the bed. “Let's retire to a small island somewhere and live out our days in peace and simplicity.”

The thought of staying up through the night seemed a childishly unreasonable burden when he'd been awake since the early afternoon. The nocturnal schedule of the Sinspire was requiring a degree of adjustment that he hadn't fully anticipated.

Jean snorted, not looking up from his study of the tray that had just been brought to their room. “I knew you weren't born for thieving,” he said. “Designed for a day's honest work in the fields, you are. Tell me again how you nearly fainted on the Dama's sacrifice day.”

“I would throw one of these pillows at you if I thought you were worth it, but you deserve neither the pillow nor my energy.”

“Allow me to consult your doppelganger,” Jean said, picking something up off the tray. “Pastry Locke, how would you like to descend to a life of tricks and bastardry?”

“Never,” Jean continued, pitching his voice just below a squeak. “I just want a field to call my own and an honest woman to wed but never bed.”

“What the hell,” Locke rolled off the bed to examine the tray as Jean put down whatever he'd been holding. Two small person-shaped cakes examined him back with unblinking raisin eyes. It looked like they were meant to be him and Jean, based on the coloring approximations and relative size, which was almost insulting.

“Likeness cakes, I'm told,” Jean said. “Apparently we've been here long enough to receive this special favor from the house. They were very proud to note that their pastry chef is Camorri.”

“Damn those good for nothing Camorri,” Locke said, picking up the pastry Jean and biting its head off.

“You'll never get an honest wife with that attitude,” Jean said.

“Alas, I suppose I'm stuck with your ugly face then. Good thing I've no interest in taking you to bed.”

“Someday,” Jean said, clasping Locke on the shoulder and widening his eyes, “you will realize that all these years I've been running a terribly elaborate scheme to convince you to fall in love with me.”

“More fool you,” Locke said. He grinned, trying to maintain his flippant demeanor despite the fact that he felt like something important had just dropped out of his insides. “You never really had to try.”

_Even though the fishing boat had been their fastest way to flee Karthain in the end, Locke would have thought they'd had enough of boats. At least there was the tabby he'd nearly tripped over. Apparently he really was the only captain ever to forget his cats._

_They stumbled off the dock in the rain, making for what looked to be the tradesman's quarter and stopping at the first inn that looked like it would be respectable enough for minimal insects. Jean dropped a pouch in front of the innkeeper that jingled loudly enough that he handed them a key to a room without comment save “up the stairs, turn left, far end of the hall.”_

_At least that's what Locke thought he said. His Lashani was a bit rusty._

_Once they got there Locke slammed the door and Jean sat down heavily on the edge of a small table in the corner that creaked under his weight. Locke felt a hysterical giggle rising in his chest that he was powerless to suppress and soon he was nearly bent double with laughter, grasping the door handle for support as Jean looked on with a concerned expression, water starting to run off him and pool at his feet._

_He straightened up, staggering over to place his hands on the table on either side of Jean's hips, still giggling. “Jean,” he sighed deliriously. “Oh, Jean.”_

_Jean looked like he was about to try to say something before Locke grabbed his face and kissed him. Locke's fingers tangled in Jean's hair and he felt his knees buckle just as Jean's hands tightened on his hips. Jean always knew when to catch him._

_“Hell of a way to celebrate not being poisoned,” Jean rasped, pulling back before Locke leaned back in and kissed him again, joy fiercely surging through him._

_Jean stubbornly moved away again but his hands flexed along Locke's sides, unwilling to let go. “Seriously, Locke, if you're just happy you're not dying–and don't get me wrong, I am, but I don't want–”_

_“My awareness of my mortality has no bearing on my desire to kiss you,” Locke murmured, insinuating his hands under Jean's tunic, giddy with wanting to touch. “Not exactly a recent development. Besides–”_

_Jean kissed him before he could finish, yanking Locke closer between his legs and the scrape of the table did nothing but heighten the skittering of need dancing across his skin._

_“Wish you'd told me earlier,” Jean muttered into his neck, biting down at the juncture of his collarbone, and Locke made a noise he refused to consider a whimper, hands tightening on Jean's shoulders. Jean dragged him up and practically into his lap and Locke pushed him backward until Jean was nearly flat on the table and arching up against him._

_“You weren't listening.”_

_The table shifted ominously as Jean growled, somehow flipping them over. “I'm always listening.”_

_Locke found himself trapped between the rough wood and Jean holding him down and wrapped his legs around Jean's waist, needing Jean's rain-slick skin against his own. Jean raised an eyebrow at him as he slid a hand between them and up Locke's thigh, between his legs, and Locke flushed. “Some things even the Bondsmagi can't fix, it seems.”_

_Jean kissed him again, the solid weight of him pressing Locke down as his grip tightened on Locke's thigh. “Useless bastard,” he muttered, smirking against Locke's mouth. “Always trying to take the easy way out.”_

_“I'll have you know–”_

_He was beginning to think he'd never be able to get a good speech going if Jean kept interrupting him with his tongue before Jean hoisted him up off the table and shoved his back against the wall and Locke could feel Jean's skin burning everywhere they touched._

_“Stop talking.”_

_Locke obligingly dropped to his knees, yanking Jean's breeches and linens down over his straining erection. Jean gasped as Locke licked slow, messy stripes up its length, making noises that Locke needed to hear forever as he took him fully in his mouth. Jean's hands tangled in his hair, fingers shaking as he held back, which was just unacceptable and Locke sucked harder, rolling his tongue around the head as Jean choked off a moan._

_“Fuck, Locke.” He dragged Locke upwards by the thin fabric of this tunic before yanking it over his head, spinning Locke around and pulling down his trousers before nearly shoving him face-first into the wall. Jean's erection was rubbing between his legs and he spread them as far as the fabric tangled around his ankles allowed as Jean enveloped him, the full length of his body pressing him against the wall and it was like he needed to touch him more than he needed to breathe. “Can I– if you–”_

_Locke wrapped his hand around Jean's wrist and tugged his hand up in response, sucking Jean's fingers into his mouth and circling his tongue around the tips as Jean punctuated his sighs with sharp bites up his neck, and Locke hissed at lack of contact when Jean fell to his knees._

_His vision blurred around the edges as Jean ran his tongue down the small of his back and then lower, circling the edge of his hole before sliding in one finger slick with something Locke couldn't identify. The beams of the wall seemed like the only thing holding him up as he scrambled in search of support when Jean added a second finger, tongue still circling around the edge. “Jean, fuck, please,” he moaned, head thudding forward against the wall as his senses finally dropped in their tracks and there was nothing left but Jean._

_Eventually Jean stood, pressing him further forward as he slid into him. His hand wrapped around Locke's hip and slid down to cup his balls, rolling them gently before taking Locke's whole still-soft cock in his hand as Locke whimpered._

_“While I'm thankful–” Locke managed to gasp before Jean slapped his other hand over Locke's mouth. He drove into him harder, the hand between Locke's legs slipping off his cock and tightening around his hip in a vise-like grip, fucking Locke back onto him._

_“No more,” Jean gasped into his neck. Even as the speed of Jean's thrusts increased, somewhere in the back of his brain Locke was reasonably sure he didn't mean the kissing. “Fucking stay alive.”_

_Locke grabbed desperately at Jean's leg, his other hand splayed against the wall that he wasn't entirely certain they were going to knock over as Jean drove into him, nails catching on the peaks of hipbones as Jean bit down on his neck, shuddering into his climax._

_Locke winced as Jean stepped back, guiding him with the hand on Locke's hip in the direction of the bed and Locke nearly tripped as he kicked the pants off his ankles. He had no qualms about collapsing on top of Jean as soon as he had laid down._

_“I promise,” he murmured into Jean's chest. “At least I promise to try.”_

_Jean's arm came up to wrap around him as their breathing slowed._

_“Remind me again why you felt compelled to wait until you were done dying to tell me this,” Jean said softly, voice barely making it past the drowsy haze Locke had fallen into._

_“I didn't trust you not to just buckle out of some sense of misplaced guilt,” Locke said. “I wanted to. Even before. Maybe longer. But then there was Ezri, and then, well.”_

_Jean rolled his eyes. “You are a prize idiot,” he sighed._

The small parcel in Locke's pocket really should have been heavier given all the work that had gone into it. Their alchemist had demanded a payment that could have comfortably retired at least three merchants, along with a number of tools that had to be separately commissioned from the artificers, a sapphire bracelet that Jean traced through an elaborate network of gifts and trades, and, more bothersome still, a handsome quantity of information.

“I'm not exactly subtle,” she'd said. Locke had to agree; given the eyepatch and the missing finger, the woman would be fairly easy to remember. “But you, now. You look like you could spend all night standing stock in the middle of the Sinspire and everyone would still bump into you.”

The four months as a bored spy had been worth it. Even the time he wrenched his shoulder hanging on to a gutter to avoid dropping four stories. Even the time with the scorpion merchant and the Order of Sendovani, loathe though he was to remember it.

Jean's face when he dropped the cards on the table – carefully eyed for any trace of liquid – was worth it.

He gave a low whistle of appreciation as he spread the cards delicately on the table and Locke basked.

He had always been impressed by Jean's talent for dexterity. “You don't have to be gentle,” Locke grinned.

“Gentleness would be an inadequate demonstration of my appreciation,” Jean smirked. “These are everything you promised.”

“They'd better be,” Locke said. “That's practically a death offering's worth of work.”

Jean's smirk vanished as he roughly grabbed Locke's shoulder. “That is nothing,” he growled, and Locke felt his breath catch at Jean's fierce stare. “Your death offering would make Therim Pel look like a hearth fire. There is nothing, _nothing_ on this earth I could steal that would be worth you.”

_Locke was convinced he had ditched his pursuers until he was yanked into an alleyway by the tails of his coat and someone's hand was shoved over his mouth._

_“Shhh,” hissed Jean, pulling Locke against his front just in time to avoid being accidentally stabbed with his stiletto. Locke bit his hand gently out of spite anyway and Jean dropped it._

_“I lost them ages ago,” he said, relaxing into Jean's warmth at his back. “No need for you to be skulking about here.”_

_“Always a need for skulking,” Jean said. “It's easier than running.”_

_Locke turned his head, having to tilt his chin up to look Jean in the eye. “Never too late for those Lashani titles, you know.”_

_Jean shrugged as he leaned down to kiss him. “We've got time.”_


End file.
